The Call
by Neverstop13
Summary: Mr. Rogers owns and lives in an antique shop several years after the earth's mightiest heroes decide to keep their powers away from the destruction of the world. He hasn't thought about coming back until someone familiar comes back to meet him - until he has received the call. Will he turn down, or come back to fight for justice? One-shot.


**So this is just a one-shot that I thought of and is based off of a drawing I did. It doesn't go along with the storyline in the comics at all, but sets later after the movies. This is my first Marvel fanfic so please no flames:) It was just a creative idea of mine for this.**

**I do not own Marvel; Stan Lee does. This fanfic is for entertainment purposes only.**

**Enjoy:)**

* * *

It was a warm afternoon, with the sun high in the sky, the clouds acting as a light jacket around its rays so as not to make the earth too hot. A slight breeze rolled by the large buildings of New York, tousling peoples' hair, brushing their skin just enough to feel comfort. It seemed like the perfect weather.

Mr. Rogers smiled out the window of his remote antique shop, the wrinkles crinkling the edges of his eyes, around his lips and cheeks. His bright blue eyes twinkled in the sunshine that reflected through the window that displayed some of his collections and drawings.

He watched as a small boy walked by, holding his mother's hand, and looked up at him through the window. The little boy watched the train set as it rolled through the tracks, then grinned and waved at Mr. Rogers.

He waved back, and once the two disappeared into the usual disease of New York, getting lost in the crowds and loud noises, Mr. Rogers turned and retreated back to his desk.

He adored his little shop. He and it seemed to be one, where it held all of his valuable items from his past life. It was old, though, having been open for at least twenty years now.

He remembered when he first saw it, with his passed wife and he knew then where he wanted to settle down; where he wanted to stay away from the secret that lies beneath and hovers over the city. He can't help it whenever he looks at the place he once called home, and look at it as if it were broken.

But he had reminded himself that he and his friends had done their duty to the civilians. Enough damage had been marked on the community. They figured if they weren't a threat to anyone anymore, then maybe the bad guys would stop being intimidating to come forth on their land.

But if they were ever needed, they would help again. They knew they would.

Mr. Rogers hadn't gotten a call to come into action for a long, long time. He was now a middle-aged man and hadn't heard any word from his heroic team. He wondered if the old pals were still alive or not. Probably, seeing their blood wasn't normal in their veins.

He gave a small, wistful sigh through his lips and placed his hands on his desk in front of him. He eased himself back on his tall, wooden chair and situated the lamp to the mat on the desk, where a small figurine lay, smiling up at him.

Mr. Rogers smiled back at it. He reached forward with his hands, gently picking up the doll made out of smooth, blue fabric. He traced his finger over the star on its chest and felt like he could feel the finger on his own chest.

This doll was almost finished, just a couple more cleaning up stitches with it, and then he could add on the final piece to add it onto his collection of dolls.

While holding the doll with one hand, he used his other to pick up a small pin and he weaved it into the thread on the side of the doll, near his patriotic colors.

His hand shook a little, so it was starting to get difficult to create more of these precious items. But it was less difficult to draw small, funny cartoon comics, where they sat in their framed cases by the side of the shop, where no one thought about touching it, in fear it would crack. He guessed it was easier to draw since he'd been so used to it in the army.

Mr. Rogers was quite famous in this quiet side of the city. But not many people talked to him, but mostly talked about him. How they heard rumors he was once a super-soldier. Rumors how he's about over a hundred years old. Rumors on how they witnessed him when he was younger…

Most of the built that was on his body hadn't disappeared. Muscles still lined his arms, his stomach, chest, and still lined a hard, sharp jaw. It was true he was over a hundred years old, and that made his heart feel old, but he didn't look like it. He looked as if he were barely reaching forty. He still looked like a normal, young man.

That is, except for all the scars that lined his hands, from holding weapons, and covered his entire body. They were from all those years of fighting something he'd never thought he would ever have to face.

Mr. Rogers led the thread up the side of the doll's body. He weaved in, and then out, pausing for a second to brush back his blond hair. He smoothed his thumb down the patched-up line and gently laid the finished doll back on the desk.

"There you are, mister," he said softly. "You're all set to go now,"

He was about to set it with the collection on the counter, but then realized that it was missing something.

"Ah," he said, "don't forget your shield."

He searched through the other particles, strips of fabric, pins, and cases to find the knitted shield on one of the cases. He picked it up with his thumb and forefinger, because that's how small it is, and he wrapped the small loop of yarn on the back around the doll's red glove.

"There," Mr. Rogers finished.

Suddenly, the door behind him opened and out came a boy with curly, light brown hair, the blond highlights shining as they met with the rays of sun striking through the window. He looked up at Mr. Rogers, smiled a mouth full of braces, and readjusted the strap of his duffel bag on his shoulders.

"Hey, grandpa," the boy said. "What are you doing this time?"

"Just finishing up my latest collection, son," he responded.

The boy, his grandson, Jack, looked down at the closest glass case with one of Mr. Rogers's cartoon comics in it. He paused, reading it, and an amused smile danced on his lips. He turned and looked at Mr. Rogers with his hazel eyes, his eyebrows slightly arching. Jack then walked around the side of the desk, slipping the strap off his shoulder and putting the duffel bag on the floor.

Mr. Rogers smiled while pressing his lips together. He looked back down at the now-finished doll and placed it on the counter with the other superheroes.

Jack looked up at it, placing his elbows on the counter, his shoulders reaching his elbows, and he looked at the dolls like they were just another set. "Hey, grandpa," he started.

"Yes, son?"

"Why do you like making these dolls so much?" Jack fingered the gray hammer that one doll was holding. "They're so old and nobody buys them. What's the point?" He shrugged, his shoulders brushing past his ears.

Mr. Rogers sighed, but didn't sound bothered by these questions. He shrugged, still smiling, and the laugh lines crinkling behind his eyes again. "For reasons you wouldn't understand now."

"Why not?" Jack shifted his feet, leaning forward on his elbows.

"Because they aren't just dolls to me, son. They used to be my friends." Mr. Rogers looked at the dolls sadly, how they formed a pack, united, and the smile still lingered on his lips.

Jack looked confused by this response, looking at the dolls, then back at his grandfather. He furrowed his brows together, then he smoothed them back out and his lips pressed together in a straight line. He remembered about what his dad told him on his death bed:

_"I've learned a lot from your grandfather, so you respect him. He's a lot more than you think—been through enough things than you could imagine." _

Jack figured that these dolls resembled people from his grandfather's past. But he didn't understand _how_. These dolls looked so abnormal, and would seem very out of place in this world.

Then he glanced at his grandfather, who held himself up great, like he held respectful power. That was one of the reasons why he loved being around him, because Jack felt as though he could do anything around him. The power radiated off of him produced something he hadn't felt around anyone, except maybe his dad.

Jack wondered if these dolls, in real life, were just like his grandpa. That they held great power and it seemed to radiate off them. He wondered if they seemed like heroes as well. If so, he could tell why his grandfather admired them so much.

Jack looked at his favorite doll. It was larger than the others, and seemed to stare back at him with deep emerald eyes. In fact, the fabric of its skin was green as well. Its arms and legs and chest were wider than the others, too, and it seemed to have large fists.

He didn't know why this was his favorite. He guessed it was its facial expression. Its mouth looked angry, its jaws looked powerful, but its eyes looked forgiving. Like it didn't want to be so angry, and it couldn't help it, that it was just a beast that the real person inside couldn't control.

He then wondered if his grandfather had it made like that on purpose, or if it just happened. The next thought was that, wow, his grandfather had seen this giant…hulk? His grandfather, Steve, had faced this before. That was an even greater pride.

Mr. Rogers looked at Jack under his eyebrows. "You've finished your homework, right?"

His grandfather was usually a forgiving, smiling type of guy, but when he knew there was a priority that had to be done, he didn't take that too kindly—just as long as it was done.

Jack nodded.

"Good," and then the smile appeared on his lips and he reached out and ruffled Jack's hair.

Jack chuckled and pulled back when his grandfather had finished and ran his fingers across his forehead, pulling the small curls to the side.

Suddenly there was a short, humming noise and Jack took out his phone from his pocket.

Mr. Rogers frowned at it. Every time that thing made a sound or moved, it meant his grandson had to leave either physically or mentally, or both. It bothered him; he still doesn't understand why Jack's father bought him that phone.

"Sorry, grandpa, I gotta go to football practice now." He picked up his duffel bag and hung the strap across his shoulder. "I'll be back at five,"

Mr. Rogers nodded and stepped from behind the desk and studied his grandson. He clapped a hand on Jack's shoulder. "You try, okay?"

Jack sighed and looked down at his shoes while responding in a heavy voice, "Yeah, grandpa, I know,"

"I know you don't like it when I say this, but it's true. The more they realize that you won't stop trying, the more they'll consider letting you play."

"Grandpa, I doubt that. They don't ever let me play. I'm too skinny." Jack raised his arm, pulling back his sleeve, and revealed his scrawny arm with very thin muscle. "I'm the smallest on the team."

"You may not believe this, but I was like that, too. I used to be the skinniest man ever—so thin, that they wouldn't let me into the army. I tried different approaches countless times."

Jack furrowed his brows. He had never known this about his grandfather. "Really? So how'd they finally let you in?"

Mr. Rogers took a deep breath as he remembered the day he met the doctor that was kind enough to see more than just his body. "They realized how much I would do anything for this country."

Jack sighed through his nose. "But you're so strong. You just said you were the thinnest, like me. How did that change?"

"Easy, I kept working. And I can guarantee if you keep trying, you'll get stronger, too." Mr. Rogers smiled widely and patted his shoulder again.

"Right," Jack nodded as he rolled his shoulder where the strap set on him. "I'll keep that in mind."

There was a honk outside the shop and Mr. Rogers turned to look out the window behind him. He saw a van with other teenage boys inside, waving for Jack to hurry.

"That's my ride. I have to go," Jack said as Mr. Rogers took his hand away.

Mr. Rogers nodded. "Have fun, Jack,"

He was already at the door and he turned, smiled, said, "See you later, grandpa," and a second later, the bell to the door rung again as it closed.

Mr. Rogers waved out the window as the car drove off and when it, too was also lost in the city, he turned back to his suddenly silent and empty shop. He sighed, clasped his hands together, and then stepped up to the dolls on the counter.

He touched each one, putting something back in order, and looked at them sadly. A part of him really wished he could see them again.

He readjusted the way the red-and-gold robot-looking-man was holding up the palm of his hand. He put up the fist of the giant green beast, and put back the hammer of the god with the red cape.

He chuckled to himself, remembering of a time when after a war where they ate quietly in a restaurant. He remembered being so tired.

Mr. Rogers patted the head of the patriotic hero, smiling to himself, and then sat back down on his tall, wooden chair and continued drawing.

* * *

Normally, Mr. Rogers didn't get very many visitors.

His shop was so small, quiet, and quaint, that not very many people wondered in. They only silently walked past it, not giving the shop a second glance.

A lot of days, Mr. Rogers would be alone the entire twenty-four hours, working on his creations, on his drawings—with only Jack as his company.

Sometimes he didn't sleep. Every time he did, he seemed to get another nightmare. Or some sort of fear would crawl into his chest. He realized how flawed a superhero could be, even if they seemed perfect.

But on this particular day, something so much more than particular happened.

Mr. Rogers was sitting at his desk, still drawing, but momentarily stopped to take out the pocket watch in the pocket of his beige cargo pants. On the underside of the top part, there was a picture of him and his passed wife, whom he hasn't seen in what feels like a lifetime. The picture was so old that it was gray and fraying a little at the edges. But those decayed lines of age didn't touch her smile, the beautiful smile that spread across her young face. The decayed lines didn't touch her flawless skin or her dark curls that touched her neck.

Mr. Rogers smiled to himself and even almost forgot to look at the time, he was so enveloped in the picture.

It was about three o'clock in the afternoon, and the sun was in the middle of the room now. It shined against the wooden floors, and bounced everywhere, reflecting off of artifacts—some from Mr. Rogers's past, and others that he made, or was given by others.

Just then, a sleek, long back car pulled up in front of the shop. Mr. Rogers tilted his head back, furrowing a brow, curious as to whom this new visitor was. He studied it for a while, finding that the limo was touching his memory to someone he once knew.

The door in the back opened and out stepped a young man with light brown hair that seemed gold in the sunlight, slicked up but unruly in the back. He had a closely-shaven beard around his firm jaw. Covering his eyes were thick, dark sunglasses, which he took off to reveal dark blue eyes—which seemed a little out of place compared to his dark features.

The man looked around as he straightened out his dark gray long-sleeved shirt and jeans. He closed the door behind him and stepped up to the shop.

Mr. Rogers straightened as he watched the man walk in. The man didn't look at him at first, his eyes wandered around the shop, taking in all the valuables like any other walk-in would do.

Mr. Rogers cleared his throat. "May I help you, sir?"

The man didn't say anything at first. He glanced at Mr. Rogers, then twitched his lips and shook his head. "Not yet; just lookin' around,"

Mr. Rogers knew there was something different about this man, and he nodded. "Okay, well if you need anything, please ask."

He didn't say anything. He just snapped his fingers and then hit the palm of his hand with the bottom of his fist.

Mr. Rogers looked up from under his eyebrows, staring at the hand movement he just did. It seemed so familiar to him, something he had seen and heard many times before.

The man walked up to the desk and picked up the doll with red-and-gold fabric. The one that, if it wasn't soft yarn, would be made out of iron.

"This is cool; you made this?" The man pointed to the doll and looked at Mr. Rogers, his eyebrows reaching his hairline.

He nodded. "Yes, I did."

"Oh," he set the doll back down. "Yeah, I was never the arts-and-crafts type of person. I just like to, ah, build things. Get it from my dad."

"That's nice," Mr. Rogers nodded, giving a polite smile.

He studied the man. He took in how the visitor talked fast, and how his eyes lit up when he saw the doll. He also realized how he almost seemed to keep a mask over his face, as if he were trying to keep the nonchalant look.

The man's dark blue eyes wondered over the shop again. "So this is…your shop?"

Mr. Rogers nodded again. "Yes, it is."

"You collected all this junk?"

"Well, I wouldn't call it _junk_."

"Really? Then what else do you call something a retired soldier can't get rid of?"

Mr. Rogers paused, hardening his jaw. The comment had hit a spot inside of him. He dipped his head, looking down at the desk.

"I'm sorry," the man said. "That was rude of me. Let's start over with that. Sometimes I have good entrances, sometimes I don't."

Mr. Rogers chuckled. "That's okay,"

The man offered out his hand to shake, giving Mr. Rogers a straight look. "I'm Chris,"

Mr. Rogers looked at his hand, considering it, and then reached out and shook it. "Nice to meet you, Chris. I'm, ah, Steve. Steve Rogers."

"I know that, Steve, why'd you think I came here?"

Mr. Rogers looked up at him and said, "I don't know, why did you come here? I'm starting to get the impression that it wasn't to look around a shop."

"Looks like your instincts are still sharp. What'd you do to keep them active? Work out still?"

"Tell me, Chris, how do you know me already?"

"Well, anyone who remembers the Battle of New York remembers _you_."

Mr. Rogers chuckled dryly. "That's not exactly the best thing to be remembered by."

Chris shrugged. "You'll get used to it."

Mr. Rogers frowned. "And how do you know?"

Chris shifted his feet and looked away for a while. He looked at Steve and smiled, then he turned and walked around the shop again. Mr. Rogers eyed him curiously, wondering who he really was, and why he was here.

Finally, Chris called over his shoulder as he stood, staring at something in the back corner of the room, the object being hidden behind the shelf, "You believe in superheroes still, Steve?"

"That's not my business anymore," Mr. Rogers frowned.

"I believe it is."

"And why do you?" Mr. Rogers tilted his head back, hardening his jaw again.

Chris looked back at him. "Because I can see you still have your shield back here."

Mr. Rogers stood abruptly, clenching his fists on the desk. "I think it's time you left, son,"

"Why are you hiding who you are?" Chris kept walking towards Mr. Rogers.

"That isn't your business."

"Wasn't your job to protect this city? What happened to that?"

"The city is in no need of protection anymore." Mr. Rogers firmly responded. Sure, saving people had been his thing; he'd protect the world from the dangers of other unknown worlds. But his time was gone. He wasn't sure if he could face those nightmares again.

"Really, Mr. Rogers? Have you stepped outside your shop in a while?" Chris's eyes were wide with the determination to prove a point to Mr. Rogers. "The city is losing faith in superheroes. The city's dying."

"Do you even remember why the Avengers left? To _let_ the city rest, to leave it alone. To let the bad guys stay away. And now you're asking me to come back?"

"I'm not asking you to. I'm telling you."

Mr. Rogers smirked. "You know, for someone I don't remember from SHIELD, you sure do sound a lot like Nick Fury."

Chris raised a shoulder. "I was around him a lot when I was a kid. I guess you could say that's why."

Mr. Rogers narrowed his eyes. "Honestly, who are you?"

Chris stared at him for a moment, a playfully nostalgic smirk lining his lips. He reached inside the chest pocket of his shirt and pulled out a small, white card. He handed it to Mr. Rogers.

Mr. Rogers eyed him curiously, then he took the card and looked at the side with the bold, italicized words on it. He expected to find a name and a number on it, but instead, it said: **_STARK INDUSTRIES_**

He smiled at it, and had to stifle back a laugh.

"Stark? Your dad is Tony Stark?"

Chris nodded, that smirk still lining his lips and making the close-cropped beard around it curve. "Yes, sir, and my name is Chris Stark."

Mr. Rogers could finally see the resemblance now. The smirk, the beard, the shape of his amused eyes, the mischievous twinkle in the blue-gray. He wondered where the blue came from, but he guessed Chris got that from Pepper Potts. He could see the way he couldn't stop fidgeting, how he snapped his fingers and touched his hands together—just like Tony had done.

"Digging up your dad's history aren't you?" Mr. Rogers's eyebrows rose.

"That's what my dad would've wanted. To finish what you guys started."

Mr. Rogers felt his chest deepen as his heart sunk. _Would've_ wanted. Past tense. Does this mean he was gone?

"I-I don't understand," his voice cracked.

Chris nodded. "Yeah, my father is dead. He couldn't have lived forever, you know."

Mr. Rogers pressed his lips together in a frown and he nodded.

"That's why he left me the suit, and all his other plans. He left me his video diaries and recordings and his log—all that he's ever done. Recently, I've been reading and listening to all those files and in the end, there was only one message: the Avengers must come back."

Mr. Rogers took a deep breath. "How do you know we won't accidentally destroy the world?"

"Steve, if science and mutation wanted to destroy the world, don't you think it would've done so already?"

"It almost has."

"And yet we're still here!" Chris thrusted out his hand, gesturing out the shop. "Why would you let your powers go to waste? You and the Avengers have created a beautiful team—something that actually _helps_ the world. Why not use it? Why not keep protecting it—like it should be."

All Mr. Rogers could do was stare at him. He didn't exactly agree with this. He believed the world was okay where it was; he couldn't find any trouble with it. He didn't know what to say.

Chris's lips pulled down into a deep frown, but his eyes were still wide with anticipation. "Okay, I get it." He stepped back, beginning to walk to the door. "Keep the card. Think about it. Call me when you're ready."

Mr. Rogers stared after him, his blue eyes shining, troubled. He licked his lips and nodded. "Will do, Mr. Stark."

"Please, that's my grandfather's name. Just call me Chris." He went to the door of the shop and then paused, turning back around to the back corner. He stared at it, as if thinking, and Mr. Rogers couldn't help but think about how much Chris and his father looked so much alike.

Chris said, "You know, I'm sure when you first became Captain America—you know, the whole Super-Soldier deal—, you never intended your shield to become a dust collector. Or something that had a price." He looked back at Mr. Rogers.

Mr. Rogers just stared at him again, his eyebrows resting on top of his eyes. He clenched his teeth, swallowing, and looked away from Chris.

"Right. Good day to you, Steve," Chris said as he stepped out the shop, pulling out his sunglasses and placing them on the bridge of his nose again. He opened the limo door, looking both ways as if making sure no one was looking, and climbed in.

Mr. Rogers stared at the car as it left.

Then he shook his head and moved to throw away the card, but then stopped himself. He remembered something Tony had once said: _We aren't heroes; but we can still avenge the world._

He sighed, but it soon broke into a chuckle, and he rubbed his chin again. He tapped the card on the desk but then slid it onto the desktop, where the famous name will always stare back at him, waiting for an answer.

* * *

Jack reminded Mr. Rogers of himself more and more every day.

A couple weeks later, Jack walked into the shop while frustratingly trying to stuff papers into his backpack. He was having ridiculous trouble with it until the bag finally fell to the floor and its insides spilled. Mr. Rogers helped him pick up his things, and found drawings and doodles of the broken heroes he once knew all over the papers.

It almost seemed as if Jack had been there, had seen the way Mr. Roger's friends had moved during battle, their facial expressions. But the art was much more beautiful than the gruesome war that marked horrible stains in Mr. Rogers's memory.

Mr. Rogers asked his grandson, "You like to draw?"

Jack was breathing heavily, his eyes wide, and he swallowed before nodding. His lips pressed together like he was anxious to hear what he would say.

Mr. Rogers chuckled and rubbed his chin with his hand as he studied the drawings morosely, but admiringly. "They're really good."

"You're not…mad?"

He looked up at Jack with a bewildered expression. "Mad? Why would I be mad?"

"Well…it's your past, isn't it? It doesn't bother you that I drew them?"

Mr. Rogers shook his head. "No, of course not. I think it's…well, amazing! I didn't know you could draw, Jack."

Jack shrugged. "Only a little," he mumbled.

"A little? This doesn't look like a little."

Jack shook his head and took the drawings out of Mr. Rogers's grasp. "They aren't good, trust me,"

"Why would you say that?" Mr. Rogers's eyebrows furrowed as he stared at Jack, confused.

Jack just shook his head again. "Because there's no such thing as superheroes anymore, grandpa."

Mr. Rogers frowned at this comment, his heart growing heavy. "Who told you that?"

Jack shrugged again. "No one," he mumbled very lowly through his lips.

"Did someone at school tell you this?" He asked again, and when Jack didn't answer, he asked, "Did they?"

Jack raised a shoulder as he zipped his bag back up again. "No. Everyone does. Not just at school."

"What do they say?" Mr. Rogers asked, as he soon began to realize how apart he was from the world. He told himself that he had always been apart from the world, apart from time—being changed to a "super soldier", and then kept in ice for several years. It seemed he would never catch up.

"They give me looks and ask me about you. Since my last name is Rogers. They look at the drawings and tell me that Stark and Banner is gone—even the Thor guy—and that I shouldn't waste my time drawing them." Jack frowned at his shoes. "They say that there's no one protecting the world anymore."

Mr. Rogers blinked and then frowned. He held onto Jack's shoulder again and looked him right in the eye. "Don't you let anyone tell you that again, you hear me, son?"

Jack furrowed a brow. "Why not?"

"Because none of it is true. They don't know it, but"—he dropped his voice to a whisper—"The Avengers are still around. Just on a low profile."

Jack's eyes widen. "Really?" he said in a low voice as well. But then he blinked. "Grandpa, who are the Avengers?"

Mr. Rogers sighed, grinning as he clapped his hand on Jack's shoulder. "That, son, is a story for another time. Right now, there's something I have to do. You go on and do your homework,"

Jack nodded and when he was about to continue to the back room, he stopped abruptly, bent down and picked up a twenty-dollar bill that had also dropped out of his bag. Then he disappeared behind the desk.

Mr. Rogers peered at Jack and the money, smirking, but didn't say anything about it. He cautiously journeyed to the back corner of the room, and looked back to make sure Jack was in the back room before he continued. He walked up to the wall, pushing back the shelf, and there his great, wide shield hung on the wall, shining with dust and dark scrapes across his face.

Mr. Rogers reached up and wiped his hand across the star in the middle, and as his hands left, so did the layer of dust.

He took the shield with both hands and took it off the wall, holding it in front of him. It was heavier than he had remembered, but he guessed that was normal after not holding it for years. He weighed it in his grasp, then turned it sideways and blew on it, letting the last of the dust leave it.

He turned it the other way, putting his arm through the straps behind it and felt it against his body. Mr. Rogers then turned to the long mirror beside him and looked at his reflection.

He studied himself, and realized how long it had been until he had looked at himself—really looked at who he was, or at least who he used to be. He blinked and looked down at the shield, considering to himself what he should do.

Mr. Rogers set the shield on the desk, looking over his shoulder to find that Jack still wasn't looking, and then picked up the phone. He stared at the card, punched in the numbers, and soon the line was ringing.

The line clicked open and a woman answered on the other end, "Stark Industries, this is Pepper speaking,"

Mr. Rogers smiled. "Ah, Miss Potts. It's been a while since I've heard your voice."

There was a slightly surprised gasp on the other end. "Nobody's called me by Potts for a long time…who is this?"

"Steve Rogers," he replied, "It's nice to hear from you. I've recently been contacted by your son, Chris Stark."

"Oh, yes. He's been quite interested in Tony's projects. If you ask me, it feels like he hasn't even left."

Mr. Rogers laughed. "That is very true,"

"Here, I'll get him on the line. Oh, and Steve?"

"Yes, Miss?"

"It's nice to hear from you, too," she said gently.

Mr. Rogers pressed his lips into a firm line and he nodded, even though he knew she couldn't see him.

Soon, there was a silence, and then the line clicked open again.

"Steve! I was expecting your call."

"Yeah, yeah," Mr. Rogers waved the comment aside as he could hear the grin in Chris's tone.

"So you're agreeing to continue with the Avengers Initiative?"

Mr. Rogers hesitated a moment. "Yes, sir."

"It's good to have you back, Mr. Rogers."

"Please," he replied, "call me Captain. Mr. Rogers was my father." Chris was about to respond, but then Mr. Rogers cut him off by adding on, "And if I see you bribing my grandson to convince me again, I won't continue with the Avengers again."

Chris laughed. "You just needed a little push,"

"Yeah, well, I've heard that before." Mr. Rogers said and he rested the heel of his palm on the desk and leaned forward. "So when do we start?"

"Whenever you're ready. Banner's already on board, if that helps. And someone new. His name is Logan; goes by Wolverine. He was once part of the X-Men."

"Okay. But promise me my grandson stays safe." Mr. Rogers said in a low voice.

"That's what the Avengers are for, to keep people safe."

Mr. Rogers opened his mouth to disagree, but then he stopped himself, said, "Of course," and once they set a date to meet at SHIELD, he hung up the phone. He leaned on the counter, took a deep breath, and looked at his shield to give himself some hope for making this decision. He had told himself it had been forever until he's heard from the Avengers or SHIELD. A part of him was glad to be back, to get back in action. But another part of him made him look at his scars, wondering what other kind of danger could be outside the world. The thought almost scared him.

He patted his shield again, but kept it out instead of hiding it back in the shadows. He had the feeling he was going to be using it a lot more.

* * *

**I hope you liked; please review:)**


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